Past the Halfway Mark

Arrived Sunday 4/22 in the beautiful city of Leon, which means I have walked about 295 miles in 23 days. Still feeling “Camino strong” & have no injuries or blisters. I am now just past the halfway mark on this Camino. (sign is in km)

Entering Leon, as seen from the Camino: 

Leon is famous for (surprise) yet another stunning, massive, exquisitely and intricately constructed 13th century Gothic cathedral. Fortunately I took pictures of the Cathedral last year (see below), because it’s obscured by scaffolding this year. 

This massive cathedral features close to 20,000 square feet of stained glass windows. (Once again, props to those amazing medieval craftsmen!) 

 Leon was founded as a Roman military base in the first century C.E. The cathedral was built on the site of ancient Roman baths (It never fails to amaze me how old things are here in Europe, and how visible its history . . . in California, “old” means “built before 1900.”) In the early middle ages, Leon was the richest and most powerful city in Christian Spain, before it was decimated by the Black Death (plague) starting in 1350. Afterwards, it drifted into obscurity until the arrival of the railroads in the mid-19th century. Today Leon is a busy industrial center with a population of about 130,000. (fun facts courtesy of my Camino guidebook)

What I love about these mid-size Spanish cities is that they have retained their original medieval city centers, and in some you can even see remnants of the original, ancient city walls. For the most part, the old parts of town are car-free zones, because the ancient winding streets are too narrow for cars. I love the idea that the highly irregular, spider-webby street layout in these ancient cities has remained largely unchanged for hundreds, if not perhaps thousands, of years. 

In my last post, I was struggling with rain, cold, and Camino mud. I’m happy to report the weather finally warmed up last week — bringing more typical moderate spring temps & sunshine, and drying out the Camino trail. I do miss the cooler temps, but not the mud!

This central section of the Camino is known as the meseta (plateau). The meseta is very flat, has few shade trees, and much of the Camino here follows arrow-straight roads that were originally laid out by the Romans over 2,000 years ago. Compared to the first and final sections of the Camino, which wind through beautiful mountains, rolling hills, and picturesque farmland, the flat, dry, and sometimes industrial meseta is pretty boring. There are fewer towns here, and a lot of the Camino goes right alongside the highway. Some peregrinos choose to skip the meseta because it is notoriously dull, and instead will take a bus or taxi to Leon. 

However, some say the meseta can be the most powerful part of the Camino experience, as the lack of visual distractions encourages deeper introspection. Walking is walking, regardless of scenery, and most peregrinos are here to walk the whole Camino. Also, I think the boring parts make you appreciate the lovelier parts that much more. I recall last year at one of the hostels, just before the meseta, as we were all preparing to leave in the morning, the very stern German hospitalera loudly instructed: “Don’t skip the meseta! Very powerful what it can churn up. And pay attention to your dreams!”

(It is pretty interesting to observe what floats through your brain, and what sinks, after you have been removed from your familiar daily routine and environment for weeks on end.) 

Here is an altitude map, in meters, of the entire Camino Frances. The meseta is that flattish middle section:

Just before the meseta:

It is interesting to travel this same route again. Some parts I remember very distinctly — I can recall exactly which bench I took a snack or rest break on, where I busted out the phone to take a picture, and each cafe where I stopped for an iced tea and/or pincho (slice of Spanish omelette) when I was here last year. Other parts, even entire villages, are completely unfamiliar, as if I’ve never seen them before — which is impossible, as I didn’t skip any sections. I finally figured out that the parts I don’t recall are sections where I was deeply engrossed in conversation with another pilgrim (I can get very tunnel-visiony sometimes)!

I’ve met dozens of pilgrims and heard so many poignant stories. As I’ve mentioned, part of the magic of the Camino is how readily total strangers will open their hearts to one another. 

At a communal dinner the other night I met Leo, a lawyer from Manitoba, Canada, age 73, who is walking the Camino to carry his wife’s ashes to the Atlantic. Last year he and his wife began the Camino together in St. Jean Pied-de-Port. A few days in, she had severe pain and had to seek medical help in Pamplona. Turned out she had stomach cancer, so they had to abort their Camino, and she passed away four months later. She made Leo promise he would finish the Camino after she was gone. 

I’ve met many women who (like me) have children grown and gone, and who have come to the Camino to reflect on what to do with their lives & energy now that the hands-on part of the mothering journey is over.

I’ve met many people who (like me) are between job situations, who have come to the Camino to seek clarity and perhaps some clues about which direction to go next. 

I’ve met many people who (like me) are looking to deepen their connection to Spirit, in whatever form it might take, and who are willing to talk honestly and for hours about their spiritual journeys. 

I’ve met many people who (like me) do not hesitate to share whatever food, water, equipment, songs, or moral support they have with a fellow pilgrim in need. The spirit of generosity on the Camino is truly remarkable, and unlike any other place I’ve ever visited. 

It is such a joy to witness the kindness of locals right alongside the Camino. One day I encountered two girls who were giving away paper Camino arrows they had drawn, with small magnets glued on the back.

Another day, an anonymous Camino angel left a crate of bottled water with a donativo (honor system) tray, right next to the trail.

One of the highlights of this Camino was a stay at a hostel in Carrión de Los Condes run by the Catholic nuns of the Order of St. Augustine. The four nuns, like we pilgrims, came from all different parts of the globe, and arranged a welcoming ceremony for the 30 or so pilgrims who were staying in the hostel that night. The German nun translated (to English) for the other three nuns. First they asked us to share briefly where we were from, and why we were doing the Camino. Reasons ranged from a desire for challenge and exercise, to the more esoteric or spiritual. For those who spoke no English, you could totally feel their emotion and get the gist of why they were here — it was very moving, and a testament to the fact that language is no barrier when we speak from the heart. 

Then the nuns passed around lyric sheets and serenaded us with singing and guitar. I didn’t recognize anything except “When The Saints Go Marching In,” but I was very touched by their final song, sung in Spanish but translated on the lyric sheet:

Nadie fue ayer, ni va hoy, ni ira manana 

Hacia Dios en este mismo camino que yo voy

Para cada hombre guarda un rayo nuevo el luz del sol...

Y un camino especial a Dios.

(No one went yesterday, nor goes today, nor will go tomorrow 

Towards God in this same way that I go

For every man the sun has a new ray of light...  

And a unique way to God.)

Afterwards, one of the nuns went around the room, touching our heads as she blessed each of us individually. A second nun handed each of us a small paper star which  had been colored with crayons. The German nun explained that each star had been made by the nuns for us, with a special intention and prayer for a safe Camino, and to remind us to keep the light of God and the spirit of the Camino in our hearts. 

You don’t have to be Catholic, or even Christian, to appreciate the unconditional love behind this all-embracing gesture on the part of these lovely and kind nuns. The faithful and the indifferent were welcomed and blessed with the same warmth and love. I was very deeply touched. 

And the journey continues. 

 

The Rain in Spain

...has been pretty relentless. It has been a cold, wet, and cloudy Camino journey this year — big difference from last year’s trek, when it was mild and sunny almost the entire month of April. This year, it appears Spain hasn’t gotten the memo that it’s springtime. 

There are spring flowers blooming in spots, but you have to keep your eyes peeled to find them. I found this little garden blooming alongside the Camino despite the fact that it had snowed the night before...(that’s snow on the grass behind the flowers)

All my life I’ve preferred rainy weather, but after 16 days straight, I confess I am a little tired of trekking through mud, and being cold & damp all day, despite being bundled up in (allegedly) moisture-wicking layers. I’ve had to use my very nice REI rain poncho every day, but I discovered, much to my chagrin, that it is water resistant, not waterproof. Between the sweat of exertion from walking many miles a day over varied terrain, and the rain soaking thru the poncho and into my warm but also only water-resistant jacket, I was getting pretty damp & cold. So last week I ended up buying an actual hooded rain jacket (which I usually hate because the plastic doesn’t breathe at all), and it has been a godsend! 

I heard that earlier on that Camino, in spots I’ve already passed, the constant rain caused major flooding on the Camino, and several pilgrims had to be rescued while attempting to rock-hop across what was, when I crossed it a week or so ago, a small and easily traversed stream. Yikes!

Probably from being outside all day for several days in damp clothes in the chilly air, I caught a bit of a cold last week, which has been kind of a bummer. Feeling OK and I don’t notice it when I’m walking, but I hate being “that person” in the hostels whose sniffling and coughing disrupts the sleep of fellow pilgrims. 

The very good news about the cold weather is that:

• It’s much easier on the feet. Even with comfortable, well-broken-in footwear, double layers of wool socks, and lubing the feet with lots of Vaseline to prevent the dreaded Camino blisters, when it’s warm outside and you walk 10-18 miles a day on sun-baked dirt, concrete, or gravel, you and your feet get pretty hot. Last year I had to stop & strip off the socks to cool my feet at least once a day. Not so this year! And no sign whatsoever of any blisters. 
• Warm weather tends to zap my energy, especially on long uphill climbs. It’s kind of my kryptonite — the hotter and brighter it gets, the more I fade. So with all this delicious cool weather, I feel energized almost all of the time — big change from last year. 
• Since I have done this Camino before, I am seeing familiar places but in very different weather, and also at different times of day, so it feels new. 

All that said, several stretches of this Camino are a muddy mess. I am ready for some drier weather. 

What has not changed from last year is the delight of meeting people from all over the world, sharing stories, food, equipment, songs, and great conversations. Something about being on the Camino allows people to open their hearts much more readily to perfect strangers. With no distractions and (in most cases) no rush to get to the night’s destination, it’s easy to fall quickly into very deep conversations as you take long, leisurely walks through the countryside.

I have often said the Camino is like a river of people. I spent two wonderful days walking & talking with Fiona from Wales, until the tides of the Camino shifted and she caught a bus to make up time lost to an injury earlier in the Camino. 

Many people have told me they think I am “brave” to walk the Camino alone. But I am rarely alone for long. I meet people literally all the time, and the longer I am here, the more familiar faces I see from previous days. Every day there’s a reunion. In fact, it’s a constant challenge to balance solitude with all the opportunity for socializing. I almost feel sorry for the couples or friends or groups walking together, since they seem to meet fewer people by sticking to their little units — they just seem a bit more isolated. 

Once again I am blown away by how the Camino provides. It’s truly amazing how whatever you need shows up. One day I forgot my phone cord, plug & adapter in a hostel, and out on the trail, lost the rubber tip to one of my walking sticks. At the next night’s hostel, I mentioned this to Craig from Ohio, a former IBM executive, who had the bunk next to mine. (Craig is on his 7th Camino — he’s completed four of them as an aide/guide to Vietnam vets suffering from PTSD.) Later I found an iphone cord & plug, plus 4 walking stick tips, neatly lined up on my bed, courtesy of Craig, who had extras. At dinner I met Allyssa from Arizona who gave me her extra plug adapter, so I was all set! Camino magic. 

That night I shared a wonderful impromptu dinner in the hostel’s communal kitchen with this group of fabulous women, most of whom are traveling solo:

Susie from Morocco (far left) brought a baby Martin guitar on the Camino and serenaded us all until it was time for lights-out, singing an amazing rendition of Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah,” along with some of her original compositions. (Allyssa from Arizona, who gave me her extra converter plug, is 2nd from left.)

The communal dinners in the hostels can be hugely entertaining. Last night three friendly Irishmen from Dublin treated us to Irish ballads after dinner. Many nights, though, people seem too tired to do anything more than eat & make light chitchat. Most pilgrims are from Western Europe, so I’ve had a chance to practice my one semester of Italian, my long-forgotten 2 semesters of college French, and my pretty decent basic Spanish. Most Germans and folks from the Scandinavian countries speak very good English.

I have covered a lot of (muddy) ground. I’ve been on the Camino since March 31, and have walked about 190 miles. Tonight I’m in the tiny village of Hontanas, about 1/3 of the way to the Atlantic (see pink highlighted X):

I spent two nights in beautiful Burgos. With a population of 190,000, it’s one of the few large cities on the Camino. (Most of the towns on the Camino are tiny.) Burgos is home to one of the most breathtaking and spectacular Gothic cathedrals in the world. I never stop marveling that all of this was created between the 13th and 15th centuries, entirely without power tools...

Sunlight through stained glass illuminating one of the side chapel altarpieces in the cathedral. Stunning. 

I’m averaging 13 miles a day. The time flies. No injuries, just tired feet at the end of the day. My light pack doesn’t feel like a burden. Here’s a screenshot of my daily miles from my phone:

Sometimes when I get in the flow of walking it almost feels like I am being carried. After hours & hours, the alternating left-right rhythm of my arms/sticks with the opposite feet becomes totally automatic and I forget that I am walking.

It is very fun to look back and search for landmarks to see how much distance I’ve covered. This pic shows how far I traveled in one day...I took this early one morning — I had started the previous morning in a hostel near the top of that little pointed mountain (see arrow).

And nearing the end of a long day, nothing lifts the spirits like seeing the night’s destination village come into view.

Spending days & days, week after week on the Camino has the effect of stripping away the need for any structure beyond the most basic sustenance activities of eating, doing laundry, and sleeping. The freedom from virtually all decision-making is one of the best things about the Camino, and it’s why so many people see it as a walking retreat. I have spoken with many repeat peregrinos who, like me, have returned here in order to enjoy the uncomplicated pleasures of the very simple Camino routine. We ponder whether it’s merely an escape. Maybe, but it’s also a wonderful respite. It’s just too easy, as many pilgrims young and old have told me on this trip, to distract oneself with job, chores, relationships, social media, smartphones, etc. A 20-year-old told me that here on the Camino was the first time in her life she really just stopped to think. To have the luxury of several weeks at a stretch to contemplate nothingness and being-ness is a tremendous gift indeed. I am beyond grateful.

Of course I am frequently asked why I came back again, and I see in the questioners the same skepticism I had last year when I met repeat peregrinos. Why would you do this same route twice? My answer varies, but it’s something along the lines of: I just had to come back.  

Not Exactly Everest

So I started the Camino Saturday 3/31. I’ve walked about 115 miles so far, and am feeling great. Already I feel like I’m in the Camino time warp — not really sure what day it is, or where I slept last night. The time just flies! Hard to believe I’ve been walking eight days. 

But let me start at the beginning....

The Adventure Begins 

My original flight to Barcelona Mon. 3/26 was cancelled, so I left the next evening, Tues. 3/27. After two days of planes, taxis, trains, and buses, I finally arrived by bus from Pamplona, Spain, to my Camino starting point of St. Jean Pied-de-Port, France, around 7pm Thurs., 3/29. I hoisted my 13-lb. pack onto my back and glanced around the cobblestone streets. Several other fresh-off-the-bus pilgrims stood warily about, none of us sure which direction to go. There was a sort of “first day in the freshman dorm” nervous excitement on everyone’s faces.

St. Jean is a small, charming hill town on the French side of the Pyrenees. The setting sun lit the clouds and sent shadows slanting across the medieval buildings as we all made the trek into the center of town, across an ancient stone bridge, and up a steep hill. Stunningly beautiful. I found a cheap, clean hostel & settled in for the night. I planned to spend 2 nights in St. Jean, just to get myself on European time before my first day on the Camino. 

Friday 3/30, after an amazing mushroom omelette for breakfast (cooked by a surly French woman at a tiny corner cafe), I explored the town. The highlight was a nice hike up several flights of steep, ancient, stone steps to  the top of the Citadel, a 12th century fortress which afforded a spectacular view of the town and surrounding countryside, as well as the Pyrenees, where my Camino would begin the next day:

I found a small market on the main street and for 3€ made myself a simple dinner of a giant, sweet, red bell pepper and a potato cooked in the microwave at the hostel, slathered with the most amazing local Basque cheese made from sheep’s milk. Delicious! 

There are two Camino routes from St. Jean to the next stop in Roncesvalles, Spain. Both routes wind their way approximately 18 miles over the Pyrenees and are notoriously challenging — the most difficult stage of the entire Camino —  which is why I skipped this section last year. The higher and more difficult route, the Route de Napoleon, reaches an elevation of 1400 meters (4600’), and is usually closed until mid-April due to snow blocking the trail. The lower route, the Route de Valcarlos, while less difficult at a maximum elevation of about 1000 meters (3280’), is still very challenging for a novice hiker like me due to the relatively rapid elevation gain. I’d be starting at an elevation of about 600 meters (1968’) in St. Jean. 

This altitude map shows both routes, in meters. I took the lower (Valcarlos) route. 

Adding to the challenge was the weather forecast: Rain, and a high of 45F. I wasn’t worried about the weather or the trail conditions, as I knew from last year that the Camino is well-maintained, and I’d heard that much of the Valcarlos route is on the roadway. But I was a bit worried about the vertical ascent. I am notoriously slow on the uphills. I sometimes struggle with feeling inferior because of my slowness, as people pass me all the time going uphill, but I do respect that everyone has their own pace, and mine just happens to be pretty sluggish on an incline.

I went to bed early in anticipation of the big day, the start of my Camino.

Saturday, March 31. I woke up at 3:30am. After lying awake for two hours, I surrendered and got up at 5:30am, too keyed up to sleep anymore. 

There were about a dozen people eating breakfast in the hostel kitchen, but it was completely silent except for the rustling bags & the clink of china as we ate our meager breakfast (included in the 10€ hostel price - instant coffee/tea, bread, butter, and jam). I supplemented mine with fruit I’d bought at the market. I knew from experience that later on the Camino these communal breakfasts would be a lot more vocal, but these were first-day freshmen! 

I was really nervous about the challenging day ahead. I knew what to expect from the rest of the Camino, but this trek over the Pyrenees was new turf. Needing a pep talk, I reached out to my son Ben in China, where it was 6 hours ahead. We had a quick but satisfying text exchange. “You got this, Mom,” Ben texted. I felt better. 

I set off in the rain around 8am, layered for warmth and protected from the wet weather. As I made my way through town and into the foothills, passing charming farmhouses and rolling fields, the rain fell steadily and then turned to hail. This continued off and on all day. The sun made a few capricious cameos, lighting the bright green hills and sparkling on wet grass and trees. But I could see snow dusting the higher hills and wondered how far up I’d be going that day. I had no idea what I was in for!

I was warm and dry, and so happy to be on the Camino at last. The morning’s anxiety slowly morphed into euphoria as I drank in the beautiful French countryside and fresh, clean rain-soaked air, feeling strong and confident, and did I mention, so happy to be back on the Camino?

I took my time, pausing to take lots of pictures. As I moved farther up into the hills, the fresh smell of farmland and sheep grew stronger, and I saw all kinds of birds I could not identify flying about, including some kind of split-tail hawk. It was a lovely passage for many hours, pausing briefly to chat with other pilgrims as we passed each other. 

Within a few hours, I crossed the border between Spain and France, marked by nothing more auspicious than a petrol station and an aging little strip mall. There’s not even a sign, I only knew it was the border because I’d read about it in the guidebook. Around mid-day I made the small village of Valcarlos, the last town with services before my destination, Roncesvalles. I paused to rest and eat some crackers with more of that amazing Basque cheese, sitting on a bench overlooking the valley in the snow-dusted hills beyond, during a brief sun break. Very quickly the rain began again, so I packed up my picnic and soldiered on.

The way passed more beautiful farmland and forest, slowly getting steeper. I shared an apple with two tiny ponies by the roadside.

The road kept climbing, and soon I could see small clumps of snow between the bases of the trees, then as I ascended higher, the snow was piled scantily along the sides of the trail. It was beautiful. Tired, I paused again for another snack around 2:30, estimating I was only about an hour or so from the hostel. 

Some people wisely break the 18 mile stretch between St. Jean and Roncesvalles with an overnight in the tiny town of Valcarlos. I chose to make the 18-mile trek in one day. I knew it would be challenging, but I’ve been training for months in the San Francisco hills and I figured I was good to go. All went well till late in the day. I had perused the altitude map for the day and read the trail notes in my guidebook, but I hadn’t paid very close attention to the end stage — the steepest ascent on the Valcarlos route, where the trail goes from 1300’ to 3200’ feet in 3.75 miles. It just so happened that on the day I walked, this difficult final stretch coincided with a spring snowstorm!

The trail kept winding up and up, and seemed steeper all the time, much to my chagrin. I was getting very tired, as I’d already been hiking for about six hours. The rain and hail started up again, but now turned to snow. It was soft and quiet and lovely, as I’ve always imagined snowfall would be. (Californians typically get a little giddy about snow, since we only get to see it if we go skiing). Hiking this steep trail alone in a foreign country in the falling snow, which was starting to obliterate the trail, was another matter entirely. The snow’s charm quickly wore off. However, I could still see the muddy, now snow-filled, footprints of my fellow pilgrims, so I was comforted. Weirdly, there were no way markers here, but the trail depression was pretty pronounced. Still, I hadn’t seen another pilgrim in about 2 hours. I felt the first twinge of anxiety.  

After seven hours on the trail, I assumed I was fairly close to the hostel, thinking it absolutely couldn’t be more than a few miles at most. The trail got steeper and steeper as the snow fell. At one point the trail T-boned a road, and I couldn’t tell which direction to go. I stood in the silent, falling snow and started to cry. But I realized I had to hold myself together: Losing it was not an option! So I sucked it up. I saw footprints going in both directions, but I just trusted my gut and went left. Good call — within a few dozen steps I saw a Camino marker. It led the trail off the roadway, into the woods. Thankfully there was a small barbed wire fence along the slowly fading trail. 

The temperature was dropping, and the snow became ankle deep, seeping over the tops of my ankle-high Keens. I regretted once again that I had not been able to find the right pair of boots that fit comfortably. In boots I would’ve been confidently trudging through this, but with my feet getting soaked despite two layers of wool socks, and the threat of losing the trail as it got later, I started to get really nervous. I was dressed warmly, but also drenched with sweat from the exertion, and completely exhausted. Whenever I paused to catch my breath I would immediately get very chilled. Between the cold, my nervousness, and not knowing how far away I was from the hostel, I had to fight to hold back the panic. I’m not a natural athlete despite being, uh, “big-boned,” and after a long day, I was nearing my limit of endurance.

Again I told myself I would get through this. I had to. Staying out here was not an option. I knew I could probably call for help, but I’d heard that pilgrims who need to be rescued are charge €5000 for the trouble. No thank you. Only if it became dire, and somehow way deep down I knew it wouldn’t, though that didn’t curb my nervousness very much. 

As I forced my sore and tired legs to keep stepping up and up, I started mentally singing songs to ward off despair. The first one that came to mind was the Christmas carol I used to sing with my sister: “Good King Wenceslas” —

Mark my footsteps my good page, tread thou in them boldly

Though shalt find the winter’s rage freeze thy blood less coldly

In his master’s steps he trod, where the snow lay dinted

Heat was in the very sod which the saint had printed.

(This also has a nice zippy 4/4 beat which helped me keep a steady pace. I didn’t feel any heat in the steps, but just thinking warm thoughts helped, a little.)

To further distract myself, I started preparing for a long night in the snow, should it come to that. I did check my phone’s map, which said I was 40 minutes from my destination (noting nervously I only had 20% of charge left), but I needed to stay on the trails to get there. And if the trail disappeared…. The GPS in the mountains was just a dot in a green field onscreen, so not really helpful at all. I knew I had no way to make a fire, but at least I had dry clothes in my pack....

Foolishly, I had drunk almost all of my water, since I had been so sure I was close to my destination, based on time elapsed. I thought I could probably put snow in my water bottle and melt it against my body if I needed to. Also I had food, so that was covered. But I absolutely did not want to spend the night in the snow. I thought of calling for help, but I wouldn’t know how to describe my location. 

Wet, exhausted, scared, alone… I realized it was foolishness to have lingered earlier along the way, stopping to snack and take all those pictures. I had been lulled into a sense of confidence, since I had done the Camino before, and I knew that it is ridiculously easy to navigate, you just follow the little yellow arrows or way markers, which you typically only miss if you’re not paying attention. But I hadn’t done this stretch, and here in the mountains there were very few markers and they were very far between. In good weather, I’m sure the trail is extremely obvious, but snow is a great obliterator. I thought of all the pilgrims of old who probably died on this notoriously difficult route, and again thought of how spoiled and soft we modern pilgrims are with our waterproof equipment, lightweight backpacks, GPS. The arduousness of the pilgrimages of old cannot be overstated.

It was now about 4pm. I knew I had a lot of daylight left — the sun sets around 8:30pm this time of year in Spain. But as the trail kept climbing and the snow fell harder, my despair grew. I mechanically kept repeating Good King Wenceslas, trying to stay calm. 

Sire, the night is darker now, and the wind grows stronger

Fails my heart I not know how, I can go no longer 

No, not that verse! Go back to the Heat was in the very sod verse, you idiot!

Finally, finally, I heard a car, so I knew that there was a road nearby. I was still on what tiny bit I could see of the trail, and then I heard children’s voices. Up ahead, at the top of a hill, I could see a car parked and children playing in the snow. I knew I was very close, at last. I paused to lean on my walking sticks, tears of relief flowing down my cheeks. With my waning energy I made my way sloppily up the final very slippery steep hillside, to the road. The Camino trail wound off into the woods again, but I elected to stay on the road, using the last of my phone’s charge to guide me to Roncesvalles, one mile away.   

As I neared the hostel, I finally saw another pilgrim — a man ahead of me on the road, moving very slowly. His rain poncho had bunched up behind his backpack and a small pile of snow rested on top of it. I could tell from his body language he was just as exhausted, if not more so, than I was. I hurried ahead to him, so grateful to find a fellow pilgrim!

How are you doing? I asked. You got some snow in your pack, let me brush it off. He looked a little disoriented and was oblivious to the snow that had piled up. I brushed it off and adjusted his rain poncho. Thank you, he said. First Camino? I asked. Yes, he said. Don’t worry, Roncesvalles is right there. We’re almost there. I pointed to the rooftops of the buildings I could see just ahead. Oh good, he said. I was happy to provide comfort to someone when I was in need of comfort myself. It made me feel less sorry for myself. 

I was never so relieved to arrive somewhere in all my life. I crossed the snowy courtyard, greeted by a Dutch hospitalero. Once inside I sank onto a bench with my backpack still on and collapsed in tears for several minutes, flooded with relief, and elated to be safe and warm at last.

I got settled into the clean, modern hostel, which is housed in a beautiful 14th century former monastery. 

I had a wonderful dinner of vegetable soup, delicious bread, pork chops, and the ubiquitous Spanish french fries. I was so pumped full of adrenalin I could not stop chattering with my pilgrim tablemates. It was hardly a brush with death, but it was still a fairly dangerous situation — I later found out that two Scottish pilgrims had to be rescued from the route that day. I was very lucky!

Not to worry, folks: the rest of the Camino is nowhere near this challenging. The hardest day, made unexpectedly more difficult by a late spring snowstorm, was behind me. I made it! This was the most physically demanding thing I have ever done in all my years on the planet (well, except maybe giving birth to Ben — 18 hours of labor with no drugs). I felt like a total badass!

I had a hard time getting to sleep that night (still too pumped), but when I did I slept like a rock. And a good thing, because the hostel kicked us out the door by 8am.

And so the next morning, a bright sunny Easter Sunday, I began day 2 of my adventure....